The Gazette - Еќѓй¶ґ [chizuru] -original- -

Chizuru didn't look up. "Because they are like the clouds," she whispered. "When I’m gone, they’ll just blend back into the sky. No one will have to clean them up."

Her vision blurred. The room felt crowded, not with doctors, but with the spirits of a thousand paper wings. They rustled like dry leaves. She reached for the final square of paper—a scrap of an old letter he had written her years ago. She didn't fold it for health.She didn't fold it for time. the GazettE - 千鶴 [Chizuru] -Original-

The room grew colder. The vibrant colors of the paper seemed to bleed out, leaving behind a sea of ghostly white birds. The Fragility of a Wish Chizuru didn't look up

As the final tuck was made, completing the thousandth bird, she felt a strange lightness. The walls of the sanatorium dissolved into a monochromatic blur. No one will have to clean them up

The talking stopped. He watched her hands move. The cranes were becoming smaller, more delicate, as if her strength was being poured directly into the paper.

They laughed. He told her about the world outside—the neon lights of Shinjuku, the way the subway screeched.